Weeks had passed since he'd last felt the weight of another's gaze, and in that time, he'd carved out a sanctuary of his own. It wasn't much, just a flat slab of rock perched high above the forge, nestled among the jagged tunnels and floating stones that defied reason. The path to it was treacherous: narrow passages that twisted like the veins of some great beast, deep pits that yawned without warning, and a strange, warped gravity that tugged at the body in ways that felt like falling upward. But it was his. A place where the world's clamor fell silent, and even Rose, with her sharp eyes and sharper tongue, would not follow.
At night, the moonlight poured through the broken ceiling like silver smoke, pooling on the stone in a pale, shimmering patch just wide enough for him to sit. He liked it here, where the stars seemed close enough to touch and the hum of the forge's machinery below was a distant, steady pulse, like the breathing of a mechanical giant. The cold bit at his knuckles, where scars crisscrossed the skin like faint runes, catching the light as he shifted. He sat cross-legged, breath misting faintly in the chill, and let the silence settle over him like a cloak.
This was his ritual now. Each night, when the forge grew quiet and the others retreated to their bunks or their bottles, Belial would climb. He'd weave through the tunnels, past the floating rocks that hung suspended by some forgotten force, until he reached this perch. Here, he could think. Here, he could read.
He reached into the worn satchel at his side and pulled out the notebook. Its leather cover was cracked, the edges frayed from years of handling, and when he opened it, a faint puff of dust rose from the spine, catching the moonlight like tiny sparks. The pages were yellowed, the ink still sharp despite the years. He ran his fingers over the first page, feeling the faint indentations of the words, as though the writer's hand had pressed harder than necessary, as though the act of writing had been a battle in itself.
Belial began to read.
The war is over. We won. As usual.
The words were stark, almost clinical, but Belial could hear the voice behind them—low, deliberate, carrying the weight of someone who had seen too many victories to feel pride in them. The Prince had written this, long before Belial had known him, long before the man had become a shadow in his memory. The journal was all that remained of him now, a record of wars fought, worlds claimed, and something deeper...something Belial was only beginning to unravel.
Our people, our race, have always been unmatched in war. Strategy, strength, innovation. We conquer not just by blade and fire, but by precision. Logic. Relentlessness. This marks the seventeenth world claimed in our name. A planet of ice and fire, consumed like the others.
They called themselves the Tareen, a parasitic species with long silver spines and eyes that flickered like stars. They latched onto the minds of the weak and multiplied through thought alone. We found their nexus, cracked their code, and burned them out. Efficient. Necessary.
Still, it hurt. Even when the cause was just. Their planet screamed under the weight of our bombardment. Skies turned black. Seas boiled.
Belial paused, his finger resting on the word hurt. It was a strange word to find in the Prince's hand, a man who had been all edges and iron, who had never spoken of pain except to dismiss it. The moonlight shifted, casting long shadows across the page, and Belial's breath caught as he read on.
I used the shard again after that. It pulled me back to the demon realm—one last time. To say goodbye.
Belial turned the page, the leather creaking softly. The tone shifted here, the words softening, as though the Prince had set down his armor for a moment.
The Grukin were a strange folk. Small, round, with emerald skin and ever-shifting eyes. They spoke in tri-tones, chirps, and scents. Language like breath. Emotion like color. I never quite understood their laughter, but I came to admire it.
I brought them medicine once—archaic to us, but salvation to them. In return, they gave me rhythm and peace. Their world was gentle. Their trees glowed softly, even at night. They didn't have war. Just cycles. Just harmony.
But we couldn't let them stay. The infection had begun. Not by the Grukin, but something older that festered beneath their crust. And we were soldiers first.
Belial's jaw tightened. He could almost see it, the glowing trees, the soft hum of a world untouched by war, and then the fire. Always the fire. The Prince's words carried a weight that Belial recognized, a guilt that lingered like smoke. He read on, his fingers brushing the page as though he could touch the memory itself.
I told them I had to go. I told the eldest—I never learned their gender; it didn't matter—that I was sorry. They gave me a crown of woven glassgrass.
Belial's eyes lingered on the word glassgrass. He could picture it, delicate and sharp, glowing faintly under alien skies. He wondered if the Prince had kept it, if it had sat on a shelf somewhere, a fragile reminder of a world he'd helped destroy. He reached into his satchel, half-expecting to find it there, but his fingers closed around the shard instead. It was cold, heavier than it looked, and when he held it, the air seemed to hum faintly, like the forge below.
He turned it over in his hand, watching the moonlight catch its edges. The Prince had written about changing its frequency, about how it had carried him across worlds. Belial had tried it once, late at night, when the forge was silent and Rose was asleep. He'd turned the small dial on the shard's casing, felt the air shift, but he hadn't dared go further. Not yet.
He set the shard down and returned to the journal, flipping to the next page. The handwriting grew tighter here, the words pressed closer together, as though the Prince had been writing faster, chasing a thought he couldn't quite catch.
The shard took me again this time, to a different planet, a different frequency.
It brought me here.
To the planet with two moons. The one I had studied years ago, but never touched. The atmosphere is stable. Gravity slightly strong. The terrain is riddled with beautiful landscapes and structures.
There were many people, similar.
Belial's breath caught in his throat. The words were simple, but they carried a weight that made his chest ache. A planet with two moons. He knew it, though he'd never seen it written like this. The Prince had been here, on this world, long before Belial had been born. The thought made the air feel thinner, the moonlight colder.
He turned the page, and there, at the bottom, was a single word, scrawled in ink so faint it was almost illegible, as though the hand that wrote it had trembled.
Yuma.
Belial's eyes locked on the name. His breath left him in a slow, cold exhale, misting in the air. His fingers tightened on the journal, the leather creaking under his grip.
Yuma.
His home planet.